


Real

by chaosmanor



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, Compromise, F/M, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-24
Updated: 2005-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:24:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosmanor/pseuds/chaosmanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Real

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.

The party was loud, trance music in one room, something with a solid bass in another, entire house, overlooking the beach, packed with people. Down on the sand, someone handed Orlando a small bottle, and he'd breathed in the amyl deeply, and passed the bottle back. It was that kind of party; lines on a table, real absinthe someone had brought back from an obscure African country, ’shrooms and ice. People danced, waded out into the ocean, made a lot of noise.

Not the place he would have expected to find Viggo, but there he was, sitting on the back lawn, arms around some statuesque blonde, at least until Orlando squatted down in front of him and said, "Hi."

"Hi," Viggo had said, with a smile that went all the way up to his eyes, and he abandoned the blonde, instead walking beside Orlando, down the path to the beach.

They had history, but Orlando had never managed to articulate it enough to explain to anyone, even Kate. They'd been close, but never lovers, never sharing more than a few fervent kisses, a long time ago, in New Zealand. Orlando never called Viggo, Viggo never called Orlando, and they rarely met up. There were poems of Viggo's that might be for Orlando, but he'd never asked, and Viggo had never told.

"Who was she?" Orlando asked, and Viggo slung his arms around Orlando's shoulders, close beside him.

He smelt of pot and wine, and cloying perfume, and his fingers tugged on Orlando's ponytail.

"Moira," Viggo said. "Or Mona. Or Monica, perhaps. She writes poetry, wants me to publish a book. You here alone?"

“Yeah.”

There was a fire in a pit on the beach, and a the smell of roasting pork wafted down the beach, making Orlando feel ill, so by some silent agreement they walked away from the fire, across the damp sand at the water’s edge.

"How're things?" Viggo asked neutrally. "How have you been since Toronto?"

It was darker, away from the floodlights, but Orlando kept his face turned away anyway. "All right," he said, equally neutrally. "You started working on your Oscar acceptance speech?"

"I can't imagine anyone at the Academy will give me a microphone under any circumstances," Viggo said. "Not after what Mike Moore did."

His hand slid around Orlando's elbow, stopping him from walking on and making him turn to face Viggo. "You made choices," Viggo said. "And you keep on making them. You could have chosen independent films, stage work, college, any number of things, so at least have the decency to keep the bitterness out of your voice."

"I'm not bitter," Orlando said, lying.

"You are," Viggo said. "Bitter and hollow and miserable."

"Fuck you," Orlando said. He would have pulled away, stormed off, but Viggo's grip on his arm was implacable.

"I doubt it," Viggo said, and he finally let go of Orlando's arm and strode off up the beach, further away from the party and noise.

Orlando sat down, right where he was, and the next wave lapped around him, soaking his jeans and impossibly expensive shoes. He felt like crying, or at least he thought he did. There was prickling in his eyes, and his chest hurt, but the amyl might have done that anyway, so he couldn't be sure.

 

The night was quiet, with just the faint roar of a plane overhead, muffled by double glazing and heavy curtains, and Kate was an indistinct shape beside Orlando, buried under the bedding. He touched her shoulder, two layers of T-shirt, and she mumbled and turned over muttering. She was asleep.

He'd hoped--God, what had he hoped?--that she might want some sex. A cuddle and a wank would have been good, but Kate was scared Orlando might want to touch her, give her pleasure, and that was something that she hadn't let him do for ages.

That left him, and his cock, which was pestering him for attention, so he pushed the covers back and padded naked through the house they shared.

There were lights on, in the hall and kitchen, because Kate was afraid of the dark, so he didn't fall over anything. The couch was pale green, with lilac cushions, and Orlando had hated it from the first moment Kate had pointed at it in some expensive furniture store, but he'd bought it anyway. He'd bought her the wrought iron dining table and chairs, despite knowing they'd never eat a meal at home, never mind at the table. He'd bought her a stainless steel fridge, used solely to keep dog food, vodka, champagne and nail polish cold. Her clothes, her car, that stupid fucking bag she carried everywhere, and Viggo was right, Orlando was bitter.

Unmet expectations, that was the problem. He'd expected more, somehow, from Kate, from the world. He hadn't thought he'd wind up alone, on a couch he hated, wanking while trying very hard not to think about anything at all, because what he really wanted to think about was impossible and so long ago and just not allowed.

 

"I'm going to go grab some breakfast," he called out, and Kate didn't pause from labouring away on the exercise machine thing that ruled her life, just waved her hand at him in acknowledgement.

"Want something brought back?" Orlando said, and Kate smiled and shook her head, and Orlando left her perfecting her arse, not that she actually had one, and picked up Sidi and Essa's leads, making the dogs appear as if by magic, bounding and wagging their tails.

"I'll take the dogs for a run as well," he called out, scooping up his phone, wallet and keys.

It was an overcast day, damp cold wind blowing in from the ocean, and Orlando zipped up his windbreaker and locked his car. Going to Venice Beach was reasonable. It wasn't like he actually expected Viggo to be wandering the streets, and he didn't know precisely where Viggo lived now either. He was just taking the dogs for a run, that was all.

They ran, the three of them, a mile and a half up the beach, sticking to the path so the dogs wouldn't injure their paws on discarded needles, and that was far enough for Orlando to start feeling better. There was a cafe, down one of the side streets, that didn't hate dogs, so he tightened the leads and led the pair of hounds across the road and to the café.

The waitress brought out a big bowl of water for the dogs without being asked, and Orlando ordered coffee and juice and scrambled eggs on toast, and it looked for a moment like the waitress had recognised him and was going to be a pain, so he hid behind a newspaper that someone else had left behind.

The dogs were a nuisance, winding their leads around and around the table legs, trying to sucker the other people in the café into feeding them, and Orlando almost regretted bringing them, except that they gave him an excuse to be out of the house for a few hours.

Viggo was right, obviously. Orlando was a miserable bastard for selling out, and Viggo was a miserable bastard for pointing it out to him.

He pulled his cap lower over his eyes and slouched down in his chair. He was going to be miserable, and drink coffee and eat some real fucking food, then he was going to go home to his real fucking life.


End file.
